by Brian Doyle
My hands were rough and leathery from carrying the steel and the bags of cement. The fingers feeling my muscles that were strong and hard felt like steel hooks.
The train came howling around the bend in a cloud of soot and smoke and steam at exactly five to six and screamed and cried and moaned and chugged and grunted and sighed and farted and then stopped.
The bell was ringing and clanging and stabbing clean through the air and into the hills and up and down the track and off the station walls. The station master and his helper pulled a big red wagon by the tongue alongside the baggage car. I waited and watched Oscar sort his mail.
Some people were getting off the train carrying their bags and suitcases.
You could always tell when the last person was off the train because the conductor would pick up the little step and put it back inside between the cars where he kept it.
I watched the conductor pick up the little step and get up into the train with it.
The train belched and started to move.
I looked over at Oscar.
He was wearing a big smile.
He had a letter in his hand.
He gave it to me, turned upside down.
I flipped it over and right away, the handwriting!
It was from Fleurette Featherstone Fitchell.
